


The Cake Place

by Ellis_Hendricks



Series: The Cake Place [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Pre-Relationship, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: A sequel to my story, 'Take a ride with me', this is set directly after S4E2 (The Lying Detective), when John and Sherlock are on their way to meet Molly at a cake shop. Sherlock is anxious, as it's the first time he's really seen Molly since the ambulance ride...Sherlolly implied and then, um, realised. Originally posted on FF.net.





	1. Chapter 1

He had barely been outside in the past couple of weeks, and certainly hadn't been very far on foot, so it surprised Sherlock how breathless he became during the short walk to the cake place. They had walked at John's insistence – doctor's orders, he said. Bloody John and his bloody medical degree. But despite the slight stiffness in his muscles and the shock of the brightness of London on a cold January day, he immediately felt rejuvenated to be back in the land of the living – back in his city.

John's 'pep talk' was still fresh in his mind; his first instinct had been to delete the conversation entirely, but it seemed to be resisting deletion. One thing that was very clear, however, was how fundamentally John misunderstood his relationship with The Woman. He had listened to John wittering on about how a relationship would complete him, how he needed to find someone who would make him want to be a 'better man' - and he wondered then how the hell John then made the leap to Irene Adler. Adler was a wily puzzle, a player of games, a worthy opponent – yes, she had diverted him, distracted him, but so had Jim Moriarty (and despite what Mrs Hudson might think, any interests he had did not lie in that area). Sherlock knew he had unravelled the enigma of The Woman more than most, and that she had human frailties like anyone else, but what fulfilment could he possibly derive from a relationship with her? He would never admit to John the extent to which he thought about these things (a very deep and secure room within his Mind Palace), but from what little he knew, romantic entanglements shouldn't be about competition and one-upmanship. The mere thought of that actually made him feel tired. His chosen line of work was intense, all-consuming, mentally demanding – if he were to ever make room in his life for a relationship, he needed it to give him something else…

"Oi!" John said, nudging him. "No Mind-Palacing – it's your birthday."

John was carrying Rosie in the BabyBjorn (god, he was actually starting to become familiar with the brand names!), and Rosie smiled up at Sherlock, trying to reach out and grab The Hat. Bit ambitious given their height difference, but she had spirit, he'd give her that.

Sherlock had no idea where they were heading until they rounded a corner and he spotted Molly hovering outside a shop door. She was wrapped up in her huge winter coat and comically-long scarf, and Sherlock felt his heart hitch a bit. She was carrying a canvas duffel, reminding him that, of course, she was staying at Baker Street that night, 'junkie-sitting'.

Molly spotted them and offered a little wave, and Sherlock suddenly felt the pace of his heart increase. He quickly attempted a deduction on himself and concluded that there was some residual anxiety, based on the fact that they hadn't had a proper conversation since the one conducted in the ambulance en route to his showdown with Culverton Smith. She'd come to see him at the hospital, of course (she was part of the reason he agreed to undergo treatment and monitoring in the first place), but they were rarely alone and she always seemed to want to keep things light, jokily upbeat even. For whose benefit, Sherlock wasn't sure.

"Hello, my gorgeous one!" Molly cooed as they approached.

"I agree he looks better than he did, Molly," John replied. "But I'd say that's going a bit far."

Sherlock saw Molly's cheeks colour slightly as she simultaneously reached out to Rosie and cuffed John lightly on the arm. Molly allowed Rosie to pat her face, placing a kiss on the infant's cubby, outstretched hand.

"Hi Sherlock," she said then. "How are you? You do look better."

"Hello, Molly – and thank you," he replied, wondering why he was sounding so formal. It was faintly ridiculous considering all that they'd been through together in the past few months.

"Happy birthday, by the way!" she exclaimed, taking a step forward to give him a hug. He wished he'd seen it coming so that he could have prepared, perhaps made it last longer.

"It was Molly who told me it was your birthday," John put in.

Molly looked a little uncomfortable at this.

"Medical records," she said by way of explanation. "A long time ago, I mean – not recently. I…just sort of remembered."

"What happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?" Sherlock asked, arching his eyebrow at her and earning a shy smile in return.

"I'm your bloody doctor, Sherlock," John said. "I know you think you're special, but you don't need two doctors. Leave Molly in peace."

They made their way into the café, Sherlock hanging back to allow Molly to enter in front of him.

He wanted to hate this place. It was brightly coloured and perky, and had some horrible twee name that punned on baked goods - but the occasion and the company he was with somehow outweighed his irritation. He was 40 years old, alive and with his good friend, his charming goddaughter and his...well, his Molly. Whatever that meant these days - it was constantly evolving, wrong-footing him.

Once he had chosen, Sherlock chose them a table in a back corner, where he was soon after joined by Molly, carrying Rosie on her hip.

"She was getting fussy," Molly explained. "Think the sight of so many cakes was a bit much."

"I understand completely," Sherlock replied, finding himself searching around for a highchair for their goddaughter.

Molly giggled. Her soft laughter was like a balm to Sherlock, and he realised just how much he had missed it from his life in the past weeks. As he placed the highchair at the end of the table, he looked at the two women in his life and felt a rush of...something. Rosie, still fussing and grizzling, was not keen to be placed in the chair, so instead Molly sat the baby on her knee. Hesitating for a moment, Sherlock slid into the booth beside her, and almost immediately Rosie starting beaming, reaching her short arms up into the air.

"She wants your hat, I think," Molly said, smiling shyly.

God, he still had that thing on his head. Mustn't let that become a habit.

"Here you go, Watson," he said, removing it from his head and giving it to the delighted baby. "Have at it!"

Immediately, Rosie sunk her gums into the tweed, shaking it around with her tiny hands.

"Adorable though it is, Sherlock, just how clean is that hat?"

"I'm developing her immune system," he replied. "Too much sterility is no good."

Inevitably, Rosie let go of the hat and it fell on the bench between Molly and Sherlock. He set it down on the baby's head, and immediately reached into his pocket for his phone, knowing he probably had a time window of a few seconds before Rosie yanked the hat away. He snapped a photo - John would love this.

At that moment, a woman and her teenage daughter came past, heading for the door.

"Do you want one of the three of you?" she asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to decline, but the woman was already offering her hand, and he suddenly found himself holding out his phone - the precious device that ruled his life - to a complete stranger.

"Okay, smile!" the woman said, before counting down to the flash. "I took a couple in case you want to choose."

"Thank you," Molly replied, brightly, probably, Sherlock realised, because he had forgotten to say anything, hugely relieved to have his lifeline back in his hands.

"She's absolutely beautiful!" the woman said, before turning to leave. "You all are - just so sweet! She's definitely got Daddy's eyes."

"Better not mention that to John," Sherlock commented drily after she'd gone, raising a smile from Molly.

"I should have...sorry I didn't say anything...you know, to make things clear," she said, tripping over the words. She was blushing, and Sherlock wished she wouldn't - he hated for her to be uncomfortable.

"It was harmless," he replied. "Easier to just go with it."

She nodded, turning her attention back to Rosie. He suspected she was relieved when John finally approached the table with a laden tray, providing a distraction as he handed out the drinks and plates.

"I see you went for the most expensive cake available, you git," John said, plonking a giant slab of chocolate cake in front of Sherlock, along with a double espresso.

"My birthday," Sherlock replied. "You're treating me. May as well be a proper treat."

Molly had selected a salted caramel cupcake and John had a slice of Victoria sponge. John hoisted his daughter into the highchair, and she immediately started whining and reaching out for the cake. She batted away the beaker of milk she was offered, followed by some small slices of banana.

"Give the girl what she wants, John," Sherlock said, without looking up from his phone.

"Yeah, you're one to talk!" John quickly retorted.

Sherlock's head snapped up, and when he met John's eye, he saw his friend's mouth twitch at the corners – what the hell was he getting at?

"Here you go, sweetheart," Molly said, reaching over and popping a tiny piece of cupcake into Rosie's mouth. The little girl's face lit up, and inevitably she wanted more.

"Now you've done it, Molls," John sighed.

"It's what godmothers are for," Molly smiled, shamelessly.

"So what is it that godfathers are for, eh, Sherlock?" John asked.

But Sherlock didn't hear him, not at first. His scrolling thumb had landed on the photos just taken by the cake shop customer, and what he had come face to face with was like a photo from a parallel life. Himself, Molly and a young baby, all smiling (did he really smile like that?) and looking…familial. In the second photo, instead of looking at the camera, Molly was looking at him, crinkling her nose, and the smile on her face made his heart jolt.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Lost you there for a second. Godfathers, what are they good for?"

John waited for a moment before rolling his eyes.

"We can rule out thrilling conversation, I think," he sighed.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of his friends having a conversation – something tedious about nursery places or some such – while he was quietly stealing another look at the photographs. God, he had to stop this. Why couldn't Lestrade text him with something he could solve while he ate? A three or four would probably do it, just something to distract him enough from his flights of bloody fancy.

The problem was that when he looked at the photographs, his mind embellished them, distorted them somewhat. He couldn't help but see in Rosie's place a brown-eyed infant with a tight crop of dark curls – or perhaps one that did have his eyes, but instead had downy, hazel hair.

These horribly sentimental fixations were starting to become more commonplace. The day of the christening had a lot to answer for – not the christening itself of course (why did anyone seek to induct their pre-language infant into an international cult?), but what happened afterwards. He and Molly happened afterwards. A shared cab ride, a late-night raid on Molly's fridge; Molly in that dress, her hair just begging to be unpinned. Sherlock had no idea that sex could happen like that – just naturally. He remembered Molly making a terrible joke about 'deduction' and 'seduction', and before he knew it they were on her sofa, taking each other's breath away.

They'd done it once before, of course, after he jumped from the roof of Bart's Hospital, but he still wasn't sure what that was. He recalled the intensity, the sensory overload, the satisfying of an urge – but the recent occasion couldn't have been more different. He hadn't really thought about sex being fun before, but he and Molly had barely stopped giggling throughout, and he had felt any anxiety, any hang-ups, completely evaporate. He had never been so glad that he had taken a chance on something normal.

And he nearly gave himself away the next morning, when Molly woke up while he was drawing circles on her stomach with the pads of his fingers. Was there anything that more obviously screamed "I'm wondering what it would be like to make a baby with you"?!

He hadn't meant for that to happen; what he'd intended was to be fully dressed when she woke, thanking her for the pleasant evening and then hailing a cab back to Baker Street. Instead, he had found himself having a 'morning after' breakfast at a café on Molly's route to Bart's, after which he had decided to head home on foot, suddenly feeling the need for more thinking time.

The thinking time hadn't helped much, and he found himself wishing someone or something would solve this one for him. Be careful what you wish for, of course. Mary's death, and his culpability (as he saw it) changed everything - not only did he lose a dear friend, but came close to losing the two friends sitting here in the café with him, too. In the space of a few weeks, he sabotaged whatever ground he had made with Molly, whatever it was they were moving towards. It didn't seem likely that he could just say, "Hey, can we forget about the appalling events of the last month or so and have some more of those adult sleepovers, while I try to figure out what the hell I want?"

He was fully aware that there was nothing sexy about a 40-year old man trying to wean himself off heroin, knocking back anti-emetics and barely able to muster the energy to dress himself. Molly Hooper didn't need another dependent, making draining demands on her already busy life.

"Oh, we didn't sing!" Molly said suddenly.

"Sing?" John asks.

"Sing 'Happy Birthday'."

"I can think of several good reasons why we categorically are not going to do that," Sherlock responded. "One, we're in a public place; two, I'm a grown man; and three, it's possibly the most lazy and inane song ever committed to paper. I can't believe someone out there actually derives an income from it."

"Thanks, Sherlock," John said. "Now we're definitely going to sing it."

So they did, John adopting a mock-operatic singing voice while Molly softly joined in, holding each of Rosie's little hands in hers, their little goddaughter looking surprised and delighted by this impromptu singalong. It took all of Sherlock's strength and resolve not to break into a smile.

When it was over, John reached out and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, his hand resting there for a moment, gripping his shirt.

"Happy birthday, mate," he said, a note of earnestness in his voice. "We're glad you're here."

Sherlock nodded his acknowledgement. He had ignored the missed call from his parents that morning (they had long since learned not to bother with presents or cards) and disregarded Mycroft's gloating text message welcoming him to middle age, but as he had finally acknowledged, family can transcend genetic bonds, and this, being here at this moment...wasn't completely unpleasant.

...well, until Rosamund Watson planted a sticky hand on his cheek, shrieking delightedly. He heard John snigger as he reached up to remove the errant crumbs of sponge cake.

"Here, let me," Molly said, leaning across to apply a baby wipe to the side of his face. "You've missed some."

"She's good with babies," John said, earning a sarcastic glare from Sherlock.

Momentarily distracted by his friend's interjection, he was taken by surprise when Molly placed a kiss on his cheek, not far from where she had removed the cake crumbs. It was soft, like a whisper, and gone too quickly, and Sherlock had to try not to stare at her after it was over.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock," she said, a brief, warm smile passing over her face before she returned her attention to Rosie.

He was suddenly aware that John was staring at him, which made him think he must be doing something wrong. But when he fired his friend a questioning look, John only responded with a shrug that told him precisely nothing.

"Did you make a wish?" John asked.

"A wish?"

"Yeah."

"What would I wish for?"

"I don't know...at least one 'nine' per month? A nice juicy international crime syndicate to take down? Something that would complete you as a human being?"

Sherlock made the mistake of flashing a glance towards Molly; there was the briefest of eye contact before she looked down at the table again. He felt a sudden warmth rise in his cheeks.

"No candles," he said suddenly, the words tumbling ungracefully out of his mouth. "What do you expect me to do, make a wish on invisible candles?"

"I'll do it then," John replied, placing his palms on the table. "I wish for the most uneventful twelve months that it is possible for you to have without being bored. I wish for your health, I wish for your happiness, and I wish for your continued growth as member of the human race."

Sherlock bowed his head for a moment, wondering what this was like to feel humbled. No, he knew what that was like - the woman next to him had shown him many times over.

"Thank you, John," he said.

"Oh, before I forget," John said, delving into the rucksack he carried as a nappy bag. "A present from Rosie. Sorry it's not wrapped, but if you will be an awkward bastard who tries to keep his birthday a secret, there's only so much you can expect. Thank god for one-hour printing shops."

Sherlock unfolded the garment that had been handed to him - a cotton t-shirt - revealing lettering that read 'World's Best Godfather', underneath which was a printed image of a magnifying glass. He couldn't help but smile, despite the garishness of the item.

Molly was giggling as he reluctantly held it up against himself for display.

"We got one for you, too, Molls, for all the help that you've given us" John said, tossing her a t-shirt, which of course bore the legend 'World's Best Godmother'. The image on her t-shirt was a rack of test tubes.

"Sorry, the print shop didn't have a haemocytometer or a tissue bath in their image bank," John added. "And I thought a big scalpel might detract a bit from the nice message."

"I love it," Molly smiled. "Thank you! And thank you, Rosie."

She planted a kiss on the top of Rosie's head.

"Well, now you've both got something to wear for Rosie's first birthday party, too," John said, winking at Sherlock.

"I shall look forward to it," Sherlock replied, with what he felt was admirable restraint and good grace. He hoped neither of them could tell that he was now picturing Molly in her new t-shirt and very little else.

"We'd better get this one back home," John said, starting to pack Rosie's snack pots, bottle and bib into his bag. "You'd better get yours home, too, Molly."

"Medicine's gain is stand-up comedy's loss, John," Sherlock commented, darkly, getting to his feet and hauling his coat onto his shoulders.

"Molly, don't take any rubbish from him," John said, tucking his daughter's arms back into her snowsuit.

"We'll be fine," Molly replied, picking up her duffel bag and placing another kiss on Rosie's cheek. "I've got DVDs."

Sherlock groaned.

"Dear god."

"Sherlock, behave," John warned. "Molly, there's a pair of cuffs in the salad drawer if he tries to leave the flat."

They parted company outside the cake place, and suddenly Sherlock was alone with Molly for the first time since the ambulance ride. She refused his offer of carrying her bag (who was he kidding? he still felt as weak as a kitten), instead smiling at him playfully.

"You could wear the hat, though."

He rolled his eyes and feigned a weary sigh before restoring the (slightly chewed) deerstalker to his head. At that moment, he would have done anything she asked, including wearing the t-shirt he now had stuffed in his pocket. Instead, he offered her his arm and, to his quiet delight, she took it right away, allowing him to walk her the short journey back to Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock unlocked the door to the flat, not easy while juggling the casserole dish foisted on him by Mrs Hudson when he and Molly had arrived a few moments ago.

"He'll tell you he's not hungry," his landlady had commented to Molly, apparently oblivious that he was standing right there. "And then he'll complain there's nothing in the fridge. Well, nothing edible anyway."

In return, Molly had presented Mrs Hudson with a boxed-up piece of strawberry gateau (when did she even do that?), which went some way to assuaging her disappointment for missing out on the cake place.

"She's a treasure, this girl!" Mrs Hudson had exclaimed, squeezing Molly's arm and making her blush.

He had offered a quick nod of appeasement to the older woman before she allowed them to ascend the stairs.

Once inside the flat, Sherlock looked at his watch - it wasn't even five o'clock yet. The number of hours that stretched in front of them both frightened him and sent a spark through his body. How could they get through the evening without making reference to the last time they had spent the night together? Did he really want to avoid that subject so desperately? He suspected that Molly did.

"When do you want to eat this?" Molly asked, taking the casserole dish from him and heading to the kitchen.

"I'm still full of cake," he replied, tossing his coat over the back of a chair.

"I'm not surprised," she replied, laughing. "I think that piece was meant for sharing."

"Yes. I texted Mycroft a photo of me eating his share."

Molly took off her coat and hung it in the hallway, pausing as she decided what to do with her overnight bag. In the end, she left it by the doorway.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. "Do you need anything? Are you on pain medication for the side-effects?"

"I'm fine, Molly, thank you," he replied. He hated being her patient; the aftermath of his shooting he'd been able to deal with, but the pathetic self-inflicted nature of his current state left him feeling indebted and ashamed.

She looked uncertain what to do, hovering on the threshold to the kitchen.

"Do you want me to clean up?" she offered, glancing towards the kitchen, which was, as usual, a health hazard. "It won't take long."

"I'll do it tomorrow," he replied, waving her away.

"Um, I think we both know that isn't true," she said, a slight smile on her lips.

"If I let it get bad enough, Hudders will do it. Or John."

"Before you contract salmonella or a campylobacter infection?"

"Hopefully, yes."

There was a silence while Molly looked around her, clearly wondering what her role was. Sherlock was by this time sitting in his chair, and offered her a seat in John's. She had only sat there for a moment before getting up again.

"Doesn't feel right," she said, her face crinkling.

Sherlock frowned; it was suddenly very important to him that Molly feel comfortable in his home. He rose from his chair and gestured for her to join him on the sofa instead. They settled there together, a safe distance apart. One thing was vital - he mustn't do anything stupid that night, nothing that could jeopardise the precarious balance of their healing friendship, particularly not while he was still so confused over what he wanted.

"Did you really bring DVDs?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered brightly. "Documentaries, though. I know you're not keen on fictional stuff."

"People never act in a rational way in those things," he grumbled. "They speak and act in ways in which they absolutely wouldn't in real life. Especially in those ones you like."

"How do you know what I like?"

He didn't want to tell her that there was a side-room in his Mind Palace devoted to all of the books, films, music and general interests that Molly had ever made reference to and expressed an enjoyment of. At the same time, he didn't want to remind her of the most recent occasion he was at her house and able to steal a good look at her shelves - then they would definitely end up talking about it, and the last thing he wanted to do tonight was upset Molly. So instead, he gave a small shrug that he hoped was enigmatic.

She went over to her bag and returned with a handful of DVDs on a variety of subjects, including unusual medical conditions, cases of mistaken identity and one about the world's great undetected serial killers. Things that he could actually consider watching, if he could keep his attention span under control. He was reading the back cover of one of them when Molly spoke.

"Things seem better with John?"

"Hm? Oh…yes…I think they will be."

"He's realised that you didn't…that you weren't responsible for Mary."

"He did say that, yes."

"That's good," Molly says softly, looking at her hands in her lap. Sherlock has an idea what might be coming next.

"So, I guess it was worth it, then?" Molly asked, staring down at her hands in her lap. "It all played out as you planned, so the risk paid off?"

The easiest thing would be to agree, but Molly had a way of drawing out the truth from him with just a look or in the cadence of her voice.

"There were some things I didn't anticipate," he said carefully. "My drug-fuelled fantasy that I'd spent an evening with Smith's daughter, Faith - that knocked me off course a little. I had to...improvise...and I'm not very good at improvising. I hadn't...fully intended to put myself in harm's way quite to that degree. But it soon became my only option. To be honest, John's interventions helped."

"You let him beat you to a pulp," Molly sighed.

He remembered when she first came to see him in the hospital - at Bart's (it was the only hospital to which he would consent) - and the open look of horror on her face at seeing his injuries. She had touched her fingers to his blackened eye, to his split lip, but not like a doctor attending a patient, like...something else. Sherlock knew she had been angry at John, but also knew that in time she would come to understand.

"It's what he needed," Sherlock replied, adding more quietly. "What I needed, too."

"But Culverton Smith could have killed you, Sherlock," Molly said, shaking her head. "I find it hard...you knew that, and you willingly walked into his trap anyway. What if you hadn't...what if you hadn't come back from that?"

"I put my trust in John as I always do," he told her, simply. "All the rest was game-play."

"Don't call it that," Molly said, twisting the corner of her blouse. "I value your life, even if you don't."

Sherlock felt his heart twist in his chest at this comment. He wanted to tell her that wasn't true, not anymore. He knew the value of a life, and if this most recent case had taught him anything, it was to cherish his own life, too – but when, at Culverton Smith's urging, he said that he didn't want to die, that was only a half-truth. What he would never utter to the serial killer at his bedside was that Sherlock Holmes wanted to live. There was a difference. He didn't yet know what living in that sense looked like yet, but at least now he was ready to find out.

He shifted along the sofa so that he was close enough to Molly to put his arm around her shoulder. She flinched, not expecting it, but then allowed herself to be drawn into his embrace, nuzzling into his chest, moving her hand against his heart. He tried to put himself in Molly's shoes, tried to imagine what it would be like if she was equally reckless, if she was constantly putting herself in jeopardy – and it made him want to promise he would never do it again. But wasn't letting her down even worse? He wouldn't make a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.

He heard Molly sniff, and she turned her face up to his. Tears had welled in the corners of her eyes and Sherlock both hated himself and loved her for her generous heart.

"I'm supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around," she said, laughing as she fought back the tears.

"You are taking care of me," he murmured into her hair. "Always. Even when you're not actually with me."

This was a dangerous moment. Sitting there like that, their faces so close together, his lips pressed to her forehead where her hairline begun. Add to that everything that was whirling through his mind – her forgiveness of him, the photographs with Rosie, the sweet feeling of waking up with her the morning after Rosie's christening – it all made him vulnerable to acting foolishly.

"Actually, I think I am hungry after all," he said, gently releasing his arm from around Molly.

"Oh. Yes, okay. It should only take a few minutes to microwave the casserole."

Sherlock frowned.

"Microwave's out of use," he said. "Well, that is to say that I don't think we should use it."

He was still struggling with the idea that he was responsible for things in the flat these days, that things didn't automatically appear or become spontaneously clean or get mended.

Molly narrowed her eyes.

"What did you use it for?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Remember those liver biopsies you gave me several weeks ago…?"

Molly's face wrinkled in revulsion.

"You need to separate work and home life, Sherlock," she said, going into the kitchen and giving the oven a quick inspection before turning it on to heat up.

He furrowed his brow.

"But if I did that then we wouldn't be friends, would we, Molly?"

She looked at him, questioningly. He wasn't sure that came out the way he intended it to – perhaps it sounded like he was saying they were only friends because they had work in common, that their friendship couldn't survive if the morgue and lab at Bart's weren't there to hold it together.

"You mean you wouldn't have tolerated a conversation with me if we'd met in the queue at a coffee shop instead?"

She was arching her eyebrows, teasing him. Not offended - thank god.

"If we had met in a queue for coffee, I would have deduced enough about you to make you interesting to me," he replied.

"Do tell," Molly said, searching the kitchen cupboards, presumably for something for them to eat and drink from.

"You'd probably have been wearing your lab coat, for a start. Your hair would be tied back for practical purposes. No jewellery for the same reason. Flat shoes, as you work on your feet all day. And the smells are a dead giveaway – no pun intended."

"Smells?" she asked. "Oh, thanks a bunch, Sherlock. Are you saying I have the stench of death about me?"

"You smell faintly of formaldehyde. Sometimes. It's masked nicely by your lemon and ginger shampoo – you have to get close to smell the chemicals."

"If you'd had your nose in my hair in a coffee shop queue, I wouldn't have been interested in being your friend either," Molly snorted, smiling, but looking slightly put out by the direction of the conversation.

"I like how you smell."

Had he really said that? Blurted it more like. Dear god. That definitely required some further explanation.

"It tells the story of your life," he added. "What you do, who you are."

He swallowed, trying to disregard the sensory memory that had just bubbled up to the surface: the unique and heady combination of scents generated by the two of them in the warmth of Molly's bedroom.

Her face broke into a smile.

"I like how you smell, too," she said, a blush creeping across her cheeks. "I could recognise you anywhere because of it."

Smells, Sherlock knew, were vital to strong relationship bonding – he was aware that Molly would know this, too, but that it was better left unsaid. He'd end up waffling about how he could recognise John from the non-biological washing powder he started using since Rosie was born, or Mrs Hudson from the magnolia-scented perfume bought for her by Mr Chatterjee (a fact that he wasn't supposed to know).

"Much better when you're not smoking, of course," Molly added, smiling.

Raising his eyebrows, he pulled back his sleeve to show her the nicotine patch he'd slapped on his forearm before heading out the cake place.

"The full cold-turkey," he told her, hearing a note of pride in his own voice. To discover that he would be more pleasing to Molly without the whiff of cigarette smoke further galvanised him to make it work this time. Getting one over on Mycroft was another solid reason.

Molly carried two plates, two glasses and some cutlery over to the sink and turned on the tap.

"You understand why I'd prefer to give these a bit of a clean first?" she asked, smiling at him over her shoulder.

He immediately felt a mild flush of shame, keenly aware that he didn't want Molly picking up after him, treating him either as an invalid or a clueless bachelor (okay fine, he conceded to Mind Palace John, he was both of those things). He wanted them to be, well, more equal. He silently vowed to make it up to her once he was fully fit, to be a better…well, whatever he was to her.

Sherlock joined Molly at the sink, drying while she washed, occasionally stealing downward glances at his tiny but fierce pathologist – the mouse that could roar. He couldn't help but marvel at the things she did to him without even knowing, without even trying – in short, the benevolent power she had over him. Rather than fleeing from it or event grimly tolerating it, Sherlock found himself welcoming the domesticity Molly brought to his life, wondering whether it could co-exist with his work after all.

A couple of hours, one lamb casserole and one DVD about bees later, there was no sign of the domesticity abating. Sherlock sat at one end of the sofa, tuning his violin, which he had badly neglected over the past weeks, and Molly sat at the other, her feet resting in his lap while she read the Journal of Clinical Pathology. He knew she had a novel – something old about earls and duchesses, and young women of no means – in her duffel bag, too, but perhaps she was worried that he might tease her?

"You can play if you like," Molly said, looking up.

"It wouldn't disturb you?"

"I think I've been reading the same paragraph about mixed germ cell-sex cord stromal tumours of the gonads for about twenty minutes," she smiled, barely suppressing a yawn, though it wasn't yet eight o'clock. "Though I've taken in enough to know that you wouldn't want one."

Sherlock pulled a face. He was reminded, once again, that despite his reputation and what the outside world might think, next to Dr Molly Hooper he was a dullard.

Molly swung her feet from his lap, allowing him to get to his feet. He immediately felt a rush of nerves when he knew what he would play for her; it was a piece he'd started composing the day after Rosie's christening, when he'd been gone form Molly's flat for less than an hour. But all anxiety dissipated when he took up his bow and began to play, losing himself and allowing his body to become part of the instrument. There was a lightness to the piece, which distinguished it from most of his other compositions (aside from the waltz he'd composed for John and Mary, which he couldn't see himself ever playing again), and a hopefulness – but of course it wasn't complete yet.

"That was lovely," Molly said, and Sherlock felt his cheeks colour with gratification. "What's it called?"

"I don't know yet," he replied. "I'm still working out how to complete it. You're the first person to hear it, though – I don't usually let anyone hear compositions that are unfinished. Well, unless you count Mrs Hudson when she barges in with cups of tea. She likes to critique."

Molly laughed.

"Well, I won't even try to critique," she told him. "But I do feel privileged."

Sherlock was bursting to tell her that it was her music, that he was trying to pour every confusing, maddening, thrilling feeling he held for her into a composition, as though it might give him an answer to everything. But he mustn't offer things he wasn't certain he could deliver. This was not a normal situation for him – this was downtime, limbo, an enforced rest. What would happen when the game was on again? Would he see things differently?

He set the violin and bow back on the table.

"Do you…want to watch the thing about rare diseases?" he asked, gesturing to the stack of DVDs.

Molly smiled up at him, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"I think I'm a bit tired for that."

"Crap telly?"

She beamed, and Sherlock immediately recalled from his Mind Palace the very first time she smiled at him that way, so openly and genuinely.

"Give me five minutes to get into my pyjamas," she told him.

Molly seemed surprised when she arrived back in the living room to find him in his nightwear, too. In fact, she burst out laughing.

"You're wearing the t-shirt!" she sniggered.

He looked down at himself and back up again, feigning confusion. Yes, he had swapped his usual plain sleep t-shirt for 'Rosie's' gift, with 'World's Best Godfather' now emblazoned across his chest.

"It looks…nice," she added, still laughing. "I think it's now my favourite item of clothing that you own."

"Good," he told her. "Because I'm going to wear it at every important social occasion from now on, starting with Mummy's godawful seventieth birthday 'soiree' in April. You can come if you like – but only if you wear yours as well."

"I think that's exactly how I'd like to meet your mother, Sherlock," she said, trying and failing to adopt a serious face.

"Then it's decided," he said, dropping onto the sofa. "I greatly anticipate observing the look on my parents' faces."

Just the sight of their youngest son with a woman in his company would be enough for his parents, he observed wryly to himself. Perhaps he ought to consider this as an actual, feasible possibility.

"I'd better try it on then," Molly said, interrupting his thoughts. "You know, just to make sure it's suitable evening attire."

Two minutes later she was back, her terrible sleep top ('Pathologists do it in cold storage') replaced with the 'World's Best Godmother' t-shirt. Sherlock's heart performed a quick but complicated acrobatic routine – somehow, in a crudely printed and slightly oversized t-shirt, Molly Hooper looked breathtakingly beautiful.

"What?" she asked, clearly feeling his eyes on her.

"Nothing," he said, with too much protest in his voice. "Shall we see what's on the box of crap delights?"

She sat beside him on the sofa, drawing her legs up underneath her, only getting up some while later to get them both a cup of tea. When she returned and their mugs were empty, she shifted closer to him, eventually leaning up against his left shoulder as the glare from the television reflected on their faces. He knew when she had fallen asleep because her weight shifted, went slack against him. He turned his head towards her, and with his right hand, he carefully lifted a strand of hair away from her face. She wrinkled her nose in response, but didn't wake.

Sherlock flicked off the television. His phone was tantalisingly out of reach, but his need to reconnect with the myriad of unsolved crimes in the world was outweighed by his desire to give Molly her much-needed and hard-earned rest. He tried to go into his Mind Palace, thinking that it had been a while since he had 'tidied up' in there and deleted unnecessary ephemera, but soon realised that his brain was too fatigued. So instead, he gently pivoted Molly's sleeping form around to allow him to slide his own body onto the sofa, manouevring her so she was tucked into his side, her head still pillowed by his shoulder. He felt Molly's fingers flex and grip the fabric of his t-shirt.

He placed a small, chaste kiss in her hair.

As his own eyes drifted shut, Sherlock knew there was a possibility he might regret this in the morning, regret the message this intimacy might be sending to Molly – and to the sentimental portion of his own brain. But maybe he wouldn't. Maybe this was just another small step in the journey; this wasn't how it had been for John and Mary, and probably not for his parents or anyone else he knew, but it made sense that he and Molly did things differently. After all, it was Molly who had persuaded him that being different could be a strength, an advantage even – and Molly was never wrong.


	3. Epilogue

It was getting late, and John knew he should think about getting Rosie home to bed. She had done amazingly well considering that she had spent several hours as the centre of attention, even managing to steal the limelight from her godfather, with his drama queen tendencies. Although, to give Sherlock his due, he had been remarkably well-behaved that afternoon – it had been his suggestion to host Rosie's first birthday party at Baker Street, and he had even given the place a good clean (though he suspected that Molly might have had something to do with that, either through influence or practical help or a combination of the two).

John had arrived just after lunch to find the flat, his former home, bedecked in brightly coloured bunting and streamers, balloons hanging from anywhere it had been possible to fix them.

Molly and Mrs Hudson had been happily and efficiently preparing food (John had offered to pay for catering, but they had both refused, Molly even taking a day off work to enable her to pitch in), while Sherlock hovered in the background, occasionally picking out a few bars on his violin. Given the diminutive stature of the women, Sherlock must, John reasoned, have been responsible for hanging the bunting and streamers – he wished he'd been around to witness that scene. Saying that, if there was one person who could influence Sherlock's behaviour, with apparently little effort, it was Molly Hooper; this had long been the case, but John knew how especially careful his friend was being since the events at Sherrinford.

The get-together had been lovely, just the core group of people who John considered his family – Sherlock, Molly and Mrs Hudson. Mike Stamford had stopped by with a gift and for a piece of cake early on before he went on shift, and Lestrade joined them when he clocked off for the day, keen to catch up with everything he'd missed. Rosie seemed to love each and every one of them, and she was adored in return; it helped, too, that these people knew and loved Mary as well, and would help him to keep her memory alive for his little girl. He knew Sherlock had extended the party invitation to his brother, too, and although neither of them expected he would attend, a very generous gift arrived by courier that afternoon with Mycroft's apologies.

Molly and Mrs Hudson were enraptured by the old-fashioned rocking horse, each taking it in turns to hold Rosie in the saddle, encouraging her to jiggle the reigns.

"My brother was a terrible equestrian," Sherlock noted. "If Rosie can master this, she's doing better than he ever did."

John noticed Molly elbow Sherlock in the ribs.

Something else that John noted was that Molly and Sherlock's gifts to Rosie appeared to be from the both of them. Probably because Sherlock was the worst, most clueless giver of gifts around, to the point that he mostly didn't bother – which wasn't really an option when it came to his goddaughter. But he'd clearly had an influence on the choices, as everything was themed around one of Sherlock's particular fascination – bees. As well as a birthday cake shaped as a bee, Rosie was now in possession of a bee costume, a plush bee that was almost as big as she was, a wooden, push-along bee on wheels and a bee-themed frieze for the wall of her bedroom.

Molly had insisted on stealing Rosie away to one of the bedrooms, returning a few minutes later with his daughter decked out in her bee outfit. The chorus of adoration warmed John's heart – and he had to admit that she did look incredibly cute, oblivious of the antennae bobbing about on her head, and the netted wings attached to her back.

"Like the t-shirt, Molls!" Greg had commented, and John realised that Molly had changed into the 'World's Best Godmother' t-shirt that he and Rosie had bought a few months ago.

"Oi, where's yours?" John demanded of Sherlock, who at the time seemed slightly distracted by something.

"I let Mrs Hudson cut it up for dusters," he replied. "Or possibly I used it to culture some mould spores. I forget which."

"Don't pay any attention," Molly said, smiling conspiratorially. "He's been keeping it for best."

"Go on, then," John urged, grinning. "Don't want to disappoint your goddaughter on her birthday, do you?"

"John, I could be sitting here dressed as a French mime artist – or wearing absolutely nothing at all – and young Rosamund wouldn't question it for a second."

John snorted, and the comment also earned a mild admonition from Mrs Hudson. Molly, John caught, was blushing slightly.

"Yeah, um, I think the rest of us might have an issue with that, mate," John told him.

"Agreed," chimed in Lestrade. "Some of us haven't eaten yet."

"The child is dressed as an Apis – albeit not a particularly anatomically-accurate one," Sherlock tried to reason, "a situation that she is singularly unaware of and unmoved by. So, on the basis of that evidence, I-"

"Sherlock?" said Molly, her soft voice full of purpose. "We had an agreement – remember?"

John saw his friend's head whip around, and there seemed to be a few seconds when there was a silent, subtext-heavy standoff between his two friends, before Sherlock's slumped shoulders signified that he was conceding.

John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade exchanged amused, puzzled glances over their glasses of champagne. John looked over to Molly, but she was giving nothing away.

A minute or so later, Sherlock appeared back in the room with his 'World's Best Godfather' t-shirt now in place of his aubergine shirt. He had a look of grim tolerance on his face, and when Lestrade's snigger became full-blown laughter, John couldn't help but join in.

"Sherlock?" Molly said again, pointedly.

"No."

"Yes!"

Another non-verbal standoff followed.

"Fine!" he sighed eventually. "Let's get this over with."

John looked at him questioningly. Molly went over to her bag and came back with two of what looked like headbands, complete with antennae that very closely matched that of Rosie's costume.

"Oh my god, really?" Lestrade said, with the look of a man whose Christmas had come early.

"It's for Rosie," Molly said simply.

Lestrade took his phone from his pocket, but was brought up short by Sherlock.

"I am doing this out of affection for my goddaughter – at least that's what Molly tells me," he said. "I am not doing it for the amusement of the feckless layabouts of New Scotland Yard."

"Oh come on! Just one photo!" Lestrade protested.

"It might be worth keeping in mind, Greg, that not only have I devised and catalogued seventy-eight different ways to kill you without detection, I am also aware of that moment of indiscretion at the conference in Bournemouth when you were supposed to be reconciling with your wife."

Lestrade's face fell slightly, while Sherlock arched an imperiously triumphant eyebrow.

"Fine, no pictures," Lestrade agreed. "And that wasn't what it looked like in Bournemouth."

Molly had already donned her bee antennae and had swept Rosie onto her knee. Sherlock took a seat beside her on the sofa and, with a scowl, allowed Molly to lodge his headgear in his trademark curls.

"Mrs Hudson, you can take a photo if you like," Molly said brightly.

Lestrade opened his mouth in protest.

"Mrs Hudson is entirely reliant on me to transfer the content of her digital camera onto her laptop," Sherlock said. "There is no chance of this 'going viral' anytime soon."

"I'll overlook that this time, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, positioning herself with the camera. "But only because you look sweet enough to eat."

Mrs Hudson snapped a few photos of the trio of bees.

"Anyway," she added. "One of the boys from downstairs can help me with my camera, so that will be a lovely treat for your mother later on."

Sherlock looked at her in open-mouthed horror, and looked all set to remonstrate with his landlady when John noticed Molly's hand land on Sherlock's sleeve. He stopped himself immediately, instead accepting Molly's offer of holding Rosie, who was now chewing happily on the antenna of her soft toy bee.

John couldn't help but marvel at what he was seeing – the famous misanthrope Sherlock Holmes, sitting in his bachelor flat, surrounded by friends, being playful with a one-year old child, wearing a gaudy t-shirt and novelty headwear. Mary would have been overjoyed by this scene.

He was glad, too, to see Sherlock and Molly so thoroughly reconciled. He had wondered how – and even if - they would move past The Phone Call, given the potential it held to wreck everything they had built over the years. But John was well aware of Molly's huge capacity for forgiveness, and her huge well of sympathy for the traumas of Sherlock's past, and if anything, their friendship had come out stronger.

"Didn't someone say something about cake?" Lestrade asked eventually, Rosie now taking a turn sitting on his knee.

"You do know this is Rosie's party, right, Greg?" John quipped.

He went to the kitchen to help Molly bring through the cake, plates and forks.

"You made that, Molls?" Lestrade asked, visibly impressed.

"It's stunning, love!" Mrs Hudson chimed in.

"Baking is just science," Molly replied, shrugging, modest as always.

"Yeah, but I'd like to see Sherlock make one," Greg laughed.

"Sherlock doesn't need to make cakes," the man himself replied, curtly, taking up his violin. "Sherlock is providing the traditional birthday serenade."

They waited as Molly lit the candles and placed the cake in the centre of the group. John took Rosie from Lestrade and held her at a safe distance from the entrancing flames, taking in that wonderful baby smell that for some reason still reminded him of Mary. Sherlock lifted his bow and played while they sang, the bee headwear discarded, but still wearing his t-shirt. A small smile played at his lips as he looked at his goddaughter, then caught John's eye – they acknowledged each other, brothers and protectors that they were. He saw Sherlock's gaze shift so that he was looking at Molly, and his smile seemed to broaden a little at the pathologist who was singing directly and enthusiastically to Rosie.

Not for the first time, John wished he had a Mind Palace of his own, so he could create a very special place for this day.

Now the party was over and Molly was wrapping up and handing out cake for everyone to take home. When the serving plate was empty, John saw Sherlock snap a photo with his phone.

"For my brother," he said, gleefully. "Before and after photos."

Molly nudged him lightly.

"There's plenty left, Sherlock," she said, scolding him. "You should send over to him."

"An unusual delivery for the Diogenes Club, I'm sure," Sherlock replied, sniffing.

With Rosie now sleeping in her car seat, John picked up a bin bag, shoving another empty bag at Sherlock who, to his continued amusement, was still wearing his t-shirt. Lestrade had gone, and the two of them worked their way around the room, John mostly picking up discarded wrapping paper while Sherlock grabbed for the streamers festooning his living room.

Mrs Hudson, who had been talking to Molly in the kitchen, appeared on her way downstairs.

"Why don't you stay tonight, John, dear?" she said. "Seems a shame to cart the little one halfway across London, she looks so comfortable."

John considered this for a moment. The day had been exhausting, and there was something very inviting at the prospect of a takeaway and a glass of scotch with his friend. But before he could say anything, Sherlock interjected.

"Thank you for your concern, as always, Mrs Hudson, but I'm sure Rosie would be more comfortable in her own surroundings. Consistency is important for a developing infant."

John stared at him.

"Oh, go on Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson admonished. "It's ages since you boys spent any time together."

"We were working a case together for six days straight," Sherlock said firmly, sounding as though his patience was wearing thin.

"I mean outside of work, just talking, catching up!"

"That's what taxi rides are for," Sherlock replied. "They have the added bonus of a defined end point."

"Sherlock!"

"It's fine, Mrs Hudson," John said, feeling very much as though his presence wasn't wanted, but not quite understanding why. "I'm sure Sherlock has some very important mould spores to catalogue."

He went through to the kitchen to find Molly, allowing her to dry her hands on her jeans before engulfing her in a hug. Holding her at arm's length, John took in how well she looked – tired, yes, but bright and happy, with a pink glow to her complexion. She looked as though she had gained a healthy few pounds, and the way she had done her hair really suited her.

"Thank you so much for today, Molly," he said, hugging her again. "You have made a little girl and her disorganised, middle-aged father very happy."

"It was my pleasure," she replied. "And Sherlock did help, even though he's pretending he didn't. We both love Rosie so much – and you, too."

At that point, Sherlock appeared at his shoulder, and John turned to embrace him, too.

"See you later, you grumpy bastard," John said, patting Sherlock's back. "And make sure you let Molly get home soon – I'm sure she's had enough of babies for one day."

"I know of fifty-two ways to kill you, too, John," Sherlock replied. "Just 'putting that out there', as they say."

"Molly, don't clean up after him," John said, ignoring him. "Go and put your feet up, and have a glass of something."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, moving seemingly closer to the front door, as though waiting to usher him out.

"Er, if you're waiting to get rid of me, do you mind if fetch my daughter, first?"

He picked up a sleeping Rosie, allowing Molly to bend in and place a kiss on her head, and Sherlock to touch his fingers to her hair in his own unique show of affection. John would never have given a second thought to Rosie having godparents, but Mary knew best as always – not only did she recognise that John might need their help, strength and support in the future, but that this strange pair had all the qualities needed to help raise his little girl to be a fine young woman. Sherlock was right to send him home – he needed to spend this night in the house he once shared with his wife, where his daughter's life began.

000000000

221B Baker Street was quiet, although it was no longer early. Mrs Hudson was apparently out (was it her Zumba class on a Saturday morning?), and it was very possible that Sherlock had stayed up all night Mind Palacing and was now passed out until lunchtime.

John had felt bad for leaving the party when there was still so much clearing up to do, and he was convinced Sherlock would barely have made a dent in it, preferring to either ignore mess or wilfully live with filth. Rosie was with the sitter, and it was only a short diversion from his route to morning surgery.

There was no reply when he knocked, so John flipped through his keys until he found the spare. As he opened the door, there was the sound of feet skidding on the wood floor, and Sherlock suddenly appeared in view, a look of mild alarm on his face. His hair stood up at a variety of angles, which was amusing enough – but then John caught on to what he was wearing. Boxers, yes, and…

"Sherlock, why are you wearing Molly's t-shirt?"

"I…ah…don't you have work today?"

"I repeat: Sherlock, why are you wearing Molly's t-shirt?"

Suddenly, the bedroom door to his left opened.

"Um, because I'm wearing his," said Molly.

John felt his jaw fall open. Because, indeed, Molly Hooper was standing in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom wearing his t-shirt and possibly very little else – except for a deep blush, that is. He blinked a few times, knowing now how Sherlock must feel when he's 'buffering'. He looked to his friend, who was biting down on his lip – was it awkwardness, or was he trying to suppress a laugh?

"How…when…" John began. "Did this happen last night?"

"Plenty happened last night, John," Sherlock replied. "But if you're asking if it happened last night for the first time…?"

"Yes!"

"No," Sherlock replied. "Not even close."

John couldn't stop looking between the pair of them, his brain struggling to catch up. He felt himself on the brink of hysterical laughter.

"Is this where you tell me you two have been sleeping together under my nose for eight years?" he blurted.

"Sadly not, John," Sherlock replied. "It is a…fairly recent development."

He and Molly exchanged a look. There! That's what he'd been seeing for weeks now, but not understanding – not observing! He could kick himself!

"Why didn't you tell me, you git?" John said, shoving Sherlock lightly in the chest, succumbing to the laughter.

Sherlock grinned.

"Because this way is more fun," he replied.

Unable to think of an alternative response, John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him into a bear hug, ruffling the back of his head. He felt Sherlock's big hands grasp him in return. When they released each other, John opened his arms to Molly, taking hold of her gently and feeling her arms hold his shoulder blades.

"Molly Hooper," he said, as he stood back. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

She grinned, taking a few steps over to Sherlock and snaking an arm around his waist. John marvelled and his friend pulled Molly into his side, slipping his arm protectively around her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I think I do," she said.

"Anyway, it's too late now," Sherlock said. "She's agreed to marry me."

"I'm sorry, what?" John gaped.

"To be fair, that is a very recent development," Sherlock continued, looking decidedly like the cat who got the cream.

John's eyes automatically sought out Molly's hand and there, sure enough, was the evidence in diamond form. Shyly, she held up her fingers for confirmation. John couldn't help laughing again, his head swimming with all of this new information, details that changed everything about the dynamic of their little group.

"Bloody hell, no wonder you were desperate to get rid of me last night!" he said, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Wellll, that and the fact that I was very turned on by Molly wearing bee antennae."

"Hey!" Molly exclaimed, shoving her fiancé - fiancé, bloody hell! - in the ribs.

"I make no apologies," Sherlock replied, haughtily.

John couldn't help it; he swept both of them into another hug, sandwiching himself between the lanky detective and the little pathologist and suddenly feeling such a huge outpouring of love for them both. Christ, Sherlock was right about him being a romantic. He suddenly felt Mary at his shoulder and something slotted into place – she didn't sacrifice herself so that he and Sherlock could continue to make the world a safer place, she did it for this. She did it so that Sherlock could discover what he was capable of, his potential to make another human being happy beyond words. He placed a kiss on Molly's temple and affectionately ruffled the unkempt curls at the back of his friend's head again.

"I don't know what to say," John said, shaking his head in wonder, and seeing a smile on Sherlock's face the likes of which he had never seen before. "This is just so…amazing, fantastic and…god, Sherlock, for someone who reckons he's the cleverest man in London, why the hell did it take you so long to figure this out?!"

A more serious expression passed across Sherlock's face, and John noticed him taking Molly's hand in his own.

"I…I think I have known it for a long time," he admitted. "But as you well know, John, it is very possible for one to see what is in front of you, but to not observe."

John beamed, moved by his friend's uncharacteristic humility.

"Well, I am bloody happy for you both," he said. "And Rosie is going to be so delighted!"

"Actually, Rosie's been keeping our secret," Sherlock replied, biting down on a smile.

John looked between his friends and his eyebrows raised.

"You've been…carrying on in front of my impressionable daughter?" he asked, with mock sternness.

"Not like that!" Molly said, suddenly looking mortified.

"Well, we figured that by the time she is able to verbally articulate a coherent thought, things would probably be out in the open," Sherlock said. "It's been nice to have a little confidante around the place."

John glanced at his watch, knowing full well that he wasn't going to make it to the surgery on time (he'd have to text Amanda on reception on his way over – she would shout at him again, but today he didn't care).

"Why didn't you tell me before?" he asked, wondering whether he was missing something.

He saw Sherlock and Molly exchanged looks, Sherlock's arm sliding around her waist.

"We…wanted to make sure it was right," Molly said carefully. "After everything that's happened, not just recently, but over the years, it was important…we needed to work it out without everyone watching us."

Sherlock smirked.

"What Molly is very tactfully saying is that she needed time to decide whether allying herself to an emotionally-stunted, sexually-inexperienced colossal git was a lifestyle choice she wanted to make."

John saw Molly lean into Sherlock tenderly, her hand coming across to rest on his stomach, rubbing affectionately through his t-shirt. They clearly couldn't get enough of each other, and god, it was oddly beautiful to see.

"I'm going to take a wild punt and assume that at least one of those things is no longer true," John said, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Couldn't possibly comment," Sherlock said, with a short cough. "Although Molly is aware that the git thing is genetic."

John frowned.

"That isn't your way of telling me you've already got Molly up the duff, is it Sherlock?"

"Thanks, John," Molly said, rolling her eyes.

"That's a work in progress," Sherlock replied, with a certain degree of male pride. "These things take practice."

John grinned, before suddenly remembering that at that particular point he should be sitting behind a desk listening to Mrs Spencer tell him about the latest disease-of-the-week she was sure she had contracted.

"Well, I'm going to have to leave you to your practicing," he told them. "Because I'm ninety-nine per cent certain that that was what I interrupted when I arrived here."

He noticed that neither Molly or Sherlock made any move to deny it. Instead, Sherlock's eyes had acquired the qualities of a man who has suddenly become fixated on something very particular.

"We're celebrating this later," John warned them, as he turned to go. "So you'd better hurry up and tell Mrs Hudson and Greg at the very least."

"Fine!" Sherlock sighed. "After."

"I'm going."

"Good," Sherlock replied, before another shove from Molly prompted him to amend it. "I mean, thank you for coming by, John – and for your good wishes."

John started down the stairs to the front door, taking a couple of steps before turning around. He opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped by the sight of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, arms around each other's waists, sharing a kiss that was so tender and sincere that he actually had to swallow a lump in this throat.

But he hadn't gone unnoticed.

"What?" Sherlock growled, barely removing his mouth from Molly's.

"Sorry, just something I forgot to say," John said, clearing his throat and leaving what he thought was a dramatic pause. "You look bloody ridiculous in that t-shirt, mate!"

As he retreated down the stairs, there was the loud thump of a dress shoe hitting the wall close to his head. The shoe reached the bottom of the stairs before John did, around the same time that the front door to the upstairs flat was abruptly slammed shut. Shaking his head at the knowledge he had just gained, John stepped out into Baker Street to what suddenly seemed like a very changed future.

THE END


End file.
